The Garden of Stars (5 page)

 On the second week, I read Gillian's horoscope to find out how she was getting on with the basic leaflet design while waiting for the details from Maureen. It seemed she had lots of good ideas.

 She was also full of suggestions for the Christmas-themed floats at the carnival, which everyone loved, especially Bill as he saw the event as a chance to sell lucrative hot pork rolls. Ian, the landlord, had enlisted a local band to play at the carnival, vouching that he'd just booked them for that date and not mentioned a word about the carnival. Janice showed me some historical notes she'd found to help put together ghost hunts, and Mick had talked to his head chef James about running festive cookery classes. He chuckled as he explained that he'd told James they would be a much-needed money-spinner for the restaurant rather than mentioning the campaign. I was pleased, both by everyone's enthusiasm and action but also with their understanding of the need to keep schtum.

 By the time they left, my head was spinning with dates, times, and numbers, so I helped Rosie into the bath, read her a very quick bedtime story then sat and worked everything out for a little while. When I looked up from my work, I realised it had gone dark outside; it was past 10 o'clock. I looked around me and could hardly believe I'd invited people into my home when it looked such a state. I had to be up early for work the next morning but I felt compelled to clean at least part of the cottage before the start of the new week. As I swept out the hall and kitchen, I thought about how fond I was of Barbara, Bill, Mr Morris, all the folk who had got involved in the campaign. I still couldn't quite work Gillian out, but I felt her heart was in the right place. I smiled and remembered what my mother always told me: you can't judge a book by its cover. She also used to say a stranger would visit if you swept out after dark. I laughed at her old wives' tales, and realised how much I missed her and how very alone I felt at times. I had Rosemary, of course, but sometimes I missed having someone to call on for adult advice, even just adult conversation.

 The floors swept, I closed and locked the door then made myself a cup of hot chocolate and settled down in front of the fire with my book. I knew I needed some escape from the campaign; I couldn't have that and fruit and vegetables taking over my life completely.

I awoke to Rosie tugging at my arm. I had fallen asleep and slept right through the night in the armchair.

 ‘Gosh, Rosie, what time is it?' I said, with a start.

 ‘It's nearly 8 o'clock, Mummy. I'm going to be late for school if you don't get a move on.'

 ‘All right, sweetie, you go and get yourself washed and dressed. We'll have to eat breakfast on the way.'

 I spent all my evenings that week baking bread and cakes ready for next yoga class. I knew I needed to muster as much determination as I could so I cooked tomato and basil tarts to stimulate our imaginations, together with cherry cakes because I knew they were difficult to resist. I also potted sprigs of rosemary in pretty pink-painted flowerpots for each individual to take home with them as a symbol of friendship. I hoped they would be a gentle daily reminder for the kitchen windowsill of the importance of always remembering our end goal.

Finally, one day on the way to work, I spotted the sign stuck up on the church notice board as promised. I chuckled to myself in delight when I saw it. I knew it had been a good idea to get Mrs Donaldson involved. She'd clearly whipped Maureen and Janice into shape with the research, giving Gillian just enough time to finish the design of the leaflets and posters before the Sullivans' anniversary. I hoped they'd found plenty of really interesting material which would enable us to take Ivory Meadows back to its former glory.

 We continued our weekly ‘exercise classes' and everything seemed to be going to plan. Fortunately Mr Johnson didn't turn up again, and Mr Baker soon nodded off during the relaxation session of our yoga workout. But we continued our ‘astrology readings' just in any case he was only pretending. Jeremy, the choirmaster, had begun carol concert practice early for the choir, just saying he wanted it to be extra special this year and not revealing the real reason why. George, the bargee, had even bought himself a Santa suit and promised to play ‘the big man' on both boat and steam train rides for the children. I'd been and had a word with Mrs Jacobs, the headmistress of Rosie's primary school, who had duly come along to our meeting and reported she had got the children making Christmas decorations and costumes early this year but without telling them they were to be part of the carnival parade. It was good to have her onside.

 In mystical code, I told Janice that ‘her inner thoughts were being heard loud and clear by those she didn't trust' – in other words to stop talking about the campaign outside these four walls. It was an indirect message to everyone, and they all nodded in mystical agreement.

At lunchtime on October 13, as promised, Dennis went to collect flowers from Gillian and brought them back to the shop. We could barely contain our excitement when we unwrapped the roses and discovered Gillian's beautiful posters and leaflets, carefully wrapped in clear plastic to protect them from getting damp. They were exquisite.

 One read: ‘Get ready for Christmas the Old-Fashioned Way . Come to a Christmas Carnival on December 1 in the pretty Georgian town of Ivory Meadows.' It went on to list all that would be on offer that day – a festive market offering handmade gifts, a travelling circus (Jeremy's idea), a procession of Christmas floats, a choir concert, yuletide food and drink and more.

 Another read: “Get ready for Christmas the Old-Fashioned Way with a month-long calendar of festive events in the pretty Georgian town of Ivory Meadows throughout December.” This one listed festive cookery courses, Christmas markets, ghost hunts, Santa riverboat trips, gift-making workshops, grand yuletide feasts, live music, carol concerts and more. There was a similar leaflet to accompany each poster, bearing more information and maps. Gillian really did have a talent. They looked hard to resist.

 Closing the shop, I bid Barbara and Dennis, ‘Happy Anniversary' and walked as fast as I could to get a train to the printers, Gillian's precious artwork concealed in my bag of library books. The staff at the printers were suitably discreet and, on my way home, I was able to hang my ‘Lost Cat' sign on the old oak tree, with the number three as the last digit of the telephone number.

Three days later, Bill, George, and Jeremy the choirmaster did their work, taking collection of our contraband goods and carefully stashing them away from watchful eyes.

 Bill blundered his way through the meeting that followed, nearly slipping up on exactly what he and the others had done until I solemnly told him it was Jeremy's turn to tell us his news. Jeremy was far more articulate when it came to talking in code. He told of how he had managed to book the travelling circus he'd mentioned, and that they were going to perform street acts around the town throughout the carnival. It sounded wonderful.

 Gillian looked distressed though, saying she would help me make the tea and whispering to me she had made a potentially fatal flaw by holding on to one of her draft leaflets. It seemed she was rather fond of it, even though everyone had been told under no circumstances to keep any written matter in their homes and workplaces. She had carelessly left the precious draft lying around in her shop one day when the vicar had called in to pick up some flowers for his wife. Gillian assured me she'd whisked it away in time but I was a little unnerved and dished out some stern ‘astrological' warnings to the others before they left, just to be certain.

 I didn't mention that Mr Johnson had challenged me in the street, and that his parting shot had concerned me ever since: ‘Your conundrums, Vivian, be sure they do puzzle me but they do not alarm me.'

Chapter Five

At last it was the weekend and we felt we could relax. I was happily cooking when Rosie came tiptoeing into the kitchen.

 ‘Look, Mummy, I caught a ladybird,' she said.

 ‘You caught a ladybird? You can't catch a ladybird, they catch you.' I smiled and wiped a smudge of dirt from her nose.

 Together we sang: ‘Ladybird, ladybird fly away home, your house is on fire and your children are alone' laughing as the ladybird opened its bright red wings and flew back into the garden. It was an old rhyme my mother used to sing to me to bring luck. She always said it made her feel happy when she sang it, even though the words weren't particularly kind. We spent the rest of the weekend chatting, reading, and baking together. It felt so good to have some time to ourselves. Rosie was growing into a very lovely, very caring girl.

 I always loved the autumn, when the nights draw in and the trees seem to burn up in magnificent golds and brilliant reds. Barbara and I had been watching the weather from our cosy shop window all Monday afternoon, and it was on her insistence that I borrowed an umbrella to make my way home even though I had a day off the following day and so couldn't return it. I collected Rosie from school and, back at the cottage, she was full of the news of the day, telling me every last snippet in animated detail. It tired me out just watching her endless energy.

 Rosie was hungry for fresh air and, after a light tea of cherry jam sandwiches and cups of milky tea, the dark clouds seemed to clear so I allowed her to play in the garden for half an hour before bed. It gave me a little time to go over my schedule for the coming weeks. I had to write press releases to send to the local press. I was so engrossed in my work that Rosie made me jump when she came bounding into the kitchen, with Whisper the cat at her heel.

‘We've discovered hidden treasure,' said Rosie. She marched triumphantly round the kitchen, saluted me and the cat, then placed a silver amulet on the table in front of us. It was covered in dirt but nonetheless it gleamed and sparkled as it caught the light.

 ‘Where did you get this?' I asked.

 ‘It was buried in the garden. Whisper and me, we were playing pirates and he led me straight to it. He just started digging so I joined in. We didn't have to dig deep to discover our treasure.'

 There is an old myth that black cats are able to sniff out buried treasure, even so our little Whisper had surprised me.

 ‘It is beautiful, darling,' I said to Rosie, wiping it with a cloth until its jewels started to shine, speckling the walls with emerald and sapphire as it caught the setting sun through the window.

 Grabbing my hand, Rosie led me deep into the garden. There was still a heaviness to the air. The amulet in my hand seemed to shimmer even more in the stillness of the last rays of daylight. Rosie, joined by the cat again, led me to a small patch of earth they had dug up.

 ‘See if you can find treasure too, Mummy?' Rosie egged me on.

 I had to admit it was tempting to see if any other jewels lay further down the hole she'd made with her muddy hands. I fetched the shovel and dug a little deeper. Almost instantly I hit something hard. Carefully I used my hands to scrape away the dirt.

 ‘What is it, Mummy?'

 The ‘treasure' came up easily from the ground, and I pulled it up for a closer inspection.

 It was a skull. A miniature human skull. It must have been a child. I shuddered.

 ‘Cool,' said Rosie, reaching out to touch it.

 I slapped her hand, and quickly returned the skull to where I'd found it.

 ‘Don't you want to see if the rest of the skeleton is there, Mummy?'

 I felt my blood run cold, and knew I had to think fast. Should I call the police? No, it was probably best not to interfere. The skull looked old and discoloured, as if it had been buried long ago.

 ‘Rosie, sometimes treasure is buried for a reason. If that's the case then under no circumstances should it be disturbed. What we've just found is important and special. But it must only be seen and known about by us two. We were privileged to have been led to it. Now we must not take advantage of that by telling others. Do you understand? You're not to tell anyone at school about this. It's our little secret.'

 Rosie nodded solemnly: ‘Like where we came from?'

 ‘Yes, like where we came from.'

 ‘And my daddy?'

 ‘Yes, and Daddy. Run in now and wash and brush your teeth. Scrub that dirt from under your fingernails. It's time for your bed.'

 ‘When will we see Daddy again?'

 ‘Inside now, Rosie,' I said, sternly, ‘it's late and getting dark. Do as you are told at once.'

 Obediently she did as I asked, although I heard her grumbling as she made her way back into the house.

 As dusk fell around me, I looked down at the tiny skull again and wept. It felt like the salty water of my tears opened up an enormous void inside my chest that had been closed for so long. I wept for the mother of this baby, who had been forced to lay her to rest at such a young age. I wept for the baby, who had all her life ahead of her but had been cruelly taken away. I wept at what this revelation might mean to me and Rosie. Why was this in our garden? Why had the cat led us here? Was there something larger than that that had led us to Cherrystone Cottage, to Ivory Meadows in the first place? Would we ever get to return to London, to see our old friends again?

 I gently replaced the skull in the shallow grave where I had found it, covering it with earth once more. I put the silver trinket back into its rightful place, too. Then I cut some roses and placed them on top. At this, the cat leapt up and stood proudly amongst the flowers on top of the shrine. His eyes seemed to stare past me, deep into my soul. He seemed to be searching for something, something inside me that was too terrifying to be let out. He reminded me of a picture in an old storybook my mother used to read to me at night. It was about a cat which stood on top of a tombstone of a deceased woman whose soul had been possessed by the devil. My mother and her stories.

 By the time I stood up, it had gone quite dark around me. There was not a star in the sky and the moon was surrounded by an eerie mist. I ran back up to the house, and slammed the door shut behind me. My head, which had been aching all day, was now pounding.

 It wasn't just that something wasn't quite right. It was definitely that something was very wrong.

 The kettle hissed on the stove. Perhaps Rosie's fairies weren't all good after all.

That evening, Rosie continued to ask too many questions, questions to which I had no answers. After she'd finally, grumpily, gone to bed, I paced up and down the kitchen, worrying about our gruesome discovery and the effect it had had on us both. Perhaps I would go to the police in the morning after all, although the thought filled me with dread.

Suddenly the entire room lit up as an almighty flash shot through the curtains. It was rapidly followed by an enormous roar of thunder that echoed and rolled around the house. Then the heavens opened and the rain poured so heavily on the roof it sounded like it might fall in. Still it was a relief to feel the heavy haze in my head clear now that the storm was finally here. I've always loved watching a storm pass. There's something hugely comforting about being tucked up safe and cosy indoors while Mother Nature provides the world's greatest theatre.

 Going up to my bedroom, I sat on the window seat, transfixed by the spectacle of light and sound before me, together with the humming of the steady rain. The sky seemed to take on a warm, amber glow. It was strange and haunting in the coolness of the downpour. I opened the window; I wanted to feel the rain on my hands. Almost as quickly as it had started, the rain stopped and the intervals between the lightning and thunder grew longer. The storm was passing but the glow over the town was getting brighter. I breathed in the damp freshness and smelt … fire.

 Throwing on my raincoat and wellingtons, I gently roused Rosemary from her sleep, put on her coat and boots and carried her out of the house to raise the alarm.

 By the time we reached Mr Morris's house, where I knew there was a telephone, there were sirens and bells in the town. Help was already on its way so we carried on down into the high street. By this time Rosie was wide awake and running as she clutched my hand.

 It was Mr Shaw's house. The elderly postmaster's beautiful black-and-white timber home was ablaze. Flames were soaring out from the roof and the windows had blown out.

 Then to our horror, we realised there was a ladder up to the bedroom window. Mr Shaw was trapped.

 By now, quite a crowd had gathered and the men of the town were helping the firemen dump their hoses into the river. It seemed incredible that the riverside home that had previously been plagued with flooding was now on fire.

 We edged closer to the house, shielding our faces from the burning heat and the dazzling brightness. I could hear a fireman shouting to Mr Shaw that he had to go. But Mr Shaw wouldn't go, not without his beloved dog, Jake. He loved that dog too dearly to leave him behind in the fire. I had never, ever seen the two of them apart.

 There was a spine-chilling crack, and one of the roof joists began to give way. The chief fireman bravely pushed past the others and climbed in through the upstairs window. A hushed lull passed over the town. For what seemed an eternity, nobody moved. Apart from the crackle and hiss of the flames, you could have heard a pin drop in Ivory Meadows.

 Then at last, the chief fireman appeared with Mr Shaw over his shoulder. He turned and carefully made his way back down the ladder, his feet barely touching the ground before the entire roof fell in. Mr Shaw was unconscious and it was clear his beloved little Jake was not with him.

 The rest of the firemen gained control of the fire, pumping gallons of the life-giving river over the roofless, dead house. As Mr Shaw and the fire chief were taken to hospital by ambulance, the last of the flames died down and all that was left was a blackened, wooden carcass.

 Choking fumes filled the air, and the firemen told everyone to go home and close their doors and windows. I wanted to get Rosie away from this hell before us. As we slowly made our way back up the hill, I was filled with grief for Mr Shaw. How would I feel if my beautiful Rosemary and our lovely, nurturing home were taken away from me in one sudden blow?

It was not until the next day that I realised the true significance of what had happened the night before. Mr Shaw's house had been the first property earmarked for demolition. He had told me, one time when he came into the shop to buy apples, that he had been offered vastly inflated figures to sell up and move out by the property developers. He said they had wanted to knock his home down to make way for a block of six luxury apartments called ‘River View Estate'. But he had flatly refused each and every offer. He had grown up in that house, as had his father; he was not about to turn it over to a complete stranger to be bulldozed. So he had dug his heels in and stayed put. Now he was left with nothing. My mind raced. Could it be possible this wretched disaster was more than a tragic accident? I decided not to bother the police with my skeleton in the garden as they already had enough to deal with following the fire.

I talked to Barbara about my conspiracy theory as soon as I arrived at work the following day. It seemed just too awful to be the right conclusion. Barbara told me she and Dennis had been in the pub last night as they often stopped by for a quick drink after closing up the shop. Apparently by the time they reached The Mason Arms it was already a buzz with conspiracy theories on how the fire had started and who, if anyone, was to blame.

 ‘All I kept thinking,' she said, ‘was poor Mr Shaw and how lucky he had been to escape. It will, of course, break his heart that his faithful dog didn't make it out with him. Think that's the only thing he lived for, that dog. The firemen didn't realise that by saving Mr Shaw and not his dog that both would reach an early grave. Well, I know it's an awful thing to say, Vivian, and let's hope to God I'm wrong, but I don't think that man will last 'til Christmas.'

 ‘Well, we need to keep a very close eye on him then, Barbara.'

 ‘Yes, love, you're right. No one else'll bother though, mind. They were all too busy talking about the fire itself.'

 ‘So what do you think caused it? Do you think it was the lightning?' I asked.

 She looked away, busying herself, stacking the apples in baskets along the shelves: Golden Delicous, next to the Braeburn, next to the Jonagold, next to the Pink Ladies.

 ‘What have they been saying, Barbara?'

 ‘Oh nothing, love. Could you pass me the Granny Smiths from that carton over there, please?'

 Taking the box over, I put my hand on her arm and said, ‘I would much sooner know the truth, Barbara, honestly. If you're a friend you'd tell me.'

 ‘All right, love. Now you know I don't agree with this and neither does Bill. That's what's got him into so much trouble.'

 ‘Bill's in trouble?' I exclaimed. Had Bill started the fire? Surely not. ‘What on earth's been going on?'

 ‘Let's sit down, love. I'll tell you what happened from the beginning but you must promise me you won't get excited and do anything rash.'

 ‘Go on,' I said.

 She took a deep breath. ‘Everyone was just chattering away madly when we arrived at the pub last night, must have been around ten-ish after we'd packed everything away and locked up, what with being delayed by watching the fire.

 ‘Then over the general din, I heard two voices more animated than anyone else.

 ‘I looked over – as did everyone – it was Mr Johnson and Bill. The mayor was saying, ‘It's a natural demolition this, how lightning had struck the timber building and it was nature's way of choosing who and what survives. That's nature's way, isn't it? Survival of the fittest.'